Desperate Measures

June 18th, 1944

Bedfordshire, England

Years later, when he told his grandchildren about his wartime escapades, Lane would reflect on the notion of Washington D.C. being a dandified lawyer with a voice like FDR, with the same dumbstruck disbelief he did now. Gradually he felt his jaw close as the revelation sank in, but not before the man himself caught Lane's eye and smiled politely, as though he knew what was going through his head at that moment.

"Captain, were planning on standing there all day or are you going to join us?" Kirkland's voice yanked him from his reverie.

"Yes sir, of course, sir."

"Well then hurry up, the war will soon be over if you don't get a move on." Obediently, he followed their procession, noting with some indignant curiosity that Louis Jones gave no sign of letting them be. He strutted in next to Jones as if he owned the place, a large, confident smile on his face and a spring in his step. Fortunately, Lane's discontent at the paltry display was quickly overshadowed by the mighty presence of the other men in the room. He felt suddenly very small and insignificant as several of them, including Tedder and Eisenhower himself, came to greet Jones, speaking with him as equals. Lane was impressed with the uncharacteristic solemnity Jones displayed. He appeared very adult and put together, to qualities foreign to his bright demeanor.

When they turned to him, Lane didn't know what to say at first. He was overtaken with how uncannily human Eisenhower seemed, his normality. Up until this point he and the rest of SHAEF were more like omnipotent beings floating out in the ether – present, but intangible. Now he stood before him, flesh and bone and blood, just like any other man.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Captain. I was sorry to hear about Major Carter." Lane saluted deferentially.

"Thank you, sir. I hope to do his legacy justice."

"I'm sure you will." Eisenhower excused himself then, leaving Lane feeling thoroughly winded, like a balloon infused with too much air. He glanced at Jones, who was trying to contain a huge grin.

"Well, that went well." It was Louis who spoke first, but Lane was too star struck to mind much, "Eisenhower's got good sense."

"That he does." Jones murmured. The meeting was called to order shortly thereafter and Lane found himself standing just behind his country's left shoulder with a full view of the table and everyone surrounding it.

They began with a situation report. As of yet, the Allied forces were locked up in the French peninsula, casualties were high, and the fighting brutal and messy, but it was just a matter of time now. The Jerries were thinning. They couldn't hold out for much longer. On that note, Lane was proud. His regiment was one of those heading the charge.

Next on the agenda was munitions, followed by the inland objectives once break-out was achieved. Lane knew all of this, but the information was made new by the sheer novelty of its delivery. The highest ranking Allied commanders all gathered in one room. He paid rapt attention to the formal proceedings and remained content with the curt rationality of the SHAEF members. It wasn't until the end of the meeting, when Louis Jones moved to speak, that Lane felt again the malignant sting of discontent.

The smooth lawyer looked to Eisenhower for clearance, that his words might be accepted and received. He seemed terribly out of place – civilian and rich - but none of that showed on his face, in fact he looked suspiciously in his element, as if it had been contrived beforehand. His thin mustache quirked to one side when Eisenhower began an introduction.

"There's one last order of business before we finish up. This man here is Louis Jones, a representative from Washington D.C. He has arrived here today with important information, of which all of you should be aware." He nodded to Louis who smiled in return and assumed command of the room with such practiced ease it was like he'd known every man in there for decades, which wasn't too far out of the realm of possibilities when you thought about it.

"Thank you for allowing me to be here today. I understand the importance of what you do here and I have no wish to compromise or hinder your efforts; however, it has come to my attention that there are certain security concerns of which you all must be made aware. Twelve days ago Major Carter, a good friend of mine and General Jones, as well as a skilled commander, was taken prisoner. As you can imagine, his absence presents a certain threat to the Non-Disclosure Statute, the purpose of which is to safeguard the position of those like Generals Jones, Kirkland, Williams, and myself." A ripple of disquieted murmurs ran through the gathered officers that grew larger and larger and culminated in a row only a few decibels away from being a straight-up shouting match. Most of the rumblings, Lane observed, were directed towards the American high-commanders. Part of it he understood - they were the ones with direct authority over America's frontline dealings - but mostly it just pissed him off. No one could have predicted that morning, let alone their ill-fated attempt at capturing a gun base; it was no fault of theirs that they'd lost Carter. If anyone was to blame, it was Lane himself.

"What are you proposing, Mr. Jones?" Tedder's voice carried over the noise, momentarily quieting the dissenters.

"I was getting to that," Louis nodded in gracious acknowledgement of the English officer, "I propose that we assemble a special division, a task force, if you will, with the express purpose of finding Major Carter and preventing incidents like this from happening in the future." More rumblings.

"And who would head this division? I don't want an outsider rooting around in SHAEF affairs." Eisenhower stated, reasserting not only his willingness to compromise, but also his control over things. Louis smiled.

"I think the obvious choice is Captain Lane and his fellow aides, as well as a few trusted men of their choosing. If they agree, of course. They would have to be brought up to date, but this way the threat of subversion would be vastly minimized."

All went silent as he said it, but slowly, reluctantly, the nods followed, and soon after statements of affirmation as the logic of it sunk in. Innumerable eyes turned to the bewildered officer as he tried to collect himself.

"You want me, sir?"

"Yes. You were the last man to see Carter alive, and I believe that out of us all, you were the one who knew him best," Louis inclined his head in preparation for an answer, "Do you disagree?"

"No, I –" Lane was suddenly very aware of all the eyes on his person and struggled not to fidget, "I would be honored to assume the role, sir."

"Good," he clapped his hands together delightedly, "Then it is settled, we can discern the logistics at a later date. Thank you, gentlemen, for allowing me to disturb your meeting." Louis inclined his head and stepped back; however, it was clear that an ultimatum had just been made. Lane couldn't believe it. He was to head a unit, and not just any unit, one comprised of the countries' personal advisors. How was he, a rookie in this arena of politics and secrecy, supposed to assume command of men far more experienced and adept than himself?

He glanced at Jones who was beaming with pride, and decided he would have to grin and bear it as best he could. Maybe Gillan would have some good advice.

"Captain!" Lane, still in a daze, turned when his name was called, only to see Louis waving at him from afar. He glanced at Jones for approval before he left his side, wondering what the man could possibly want from him this time.

"Yes, sir?"

"Really, Captain, there's no need for the formalities, any friend of Alfred's is a friend of mine," Lane smarted at the liberal use of General Jones' Christian name, " In any case, I took the liberty of delivering Major's Carter's personal affects to your room, if you wish to go through them before we ship them home."

"His things? But won't his family want them?"

"Don't worry about that, the truth is you and Jones are probably the closest thing to a family he's got."

"How intrusive of you." Louis tossed his head back for a carefree laugh.

"My dear man, it is my job to see to the wellbeing of America and his entourage, of which you are now a part. Therefore you have a stake in the matter - you more than most seeing as you were once Carter's second. Besides, Carter's cousin is a frightful man. He would sooner throw his things away than keep them. That is, before he went after the estate and its assets…" Louis smiled in a way that Lane could only describe as oily, like a poker player who already knew he won, "Is that what you want? To see his things lost in the event he might return to us?"

"Of course not."

"Well then, it's settled," He clapped his hands together again, "You shall be the caretaker of Major Carter's possessions. Congratulations, Captain."

"But, I-" Louis was gone before Lane could get out a sentence. He heaved a breath and raked his fingers through his hair.

He always hated lawyers.

Lane ran his fingers over Carter's footlocker before opening it. Inside was very little. Some civilian clothing, his dress uniform, a few books of the practical sort, a pack of cigarettes. Nothing personal was contained within. Lane picked up the most worn book – a copy of The Wealth of Nations – and thumbed through it. The paper was thin and well used, some of the margins contained notes in Carter's neat cursive and most of those consisted of his bland opinion on the subjects therein. As he flipped through the rest of it something fell from the back flyleaf.

A photograph.

Lane's frown melted away, replaced quickly by an expression of sheer astonishment. The racy black-and-white image of a 20's flapper, dressed in fringe and pearls, her hip and leg cocked attractively, stared back at him. Lane felt his eyebrows lift so high they must have disappeared into his hairline.

What in the hell? Why would Major Carter keep a picture like this? A sweetheart maybe? He'd never once hinted at having a lady-friend back home, and this picture was dated 1927 – Carter was thirty-one – he would have been fourteen at the time! Was she family then?

She looked familiar – more than familiar actually – her face bore stunning resemblance to Carter's. Lane saw it in the slant of the eyebrows, the upturn of the mouth, the way her hair shined despite the sepia print. A sister maybe? An aunt? He knew for a fact it wasn't his mother. One of the few things Carter had disclosed to him in regards to his personal life was that both his parents were Italian and devoutly religious. Neither of them would have dared participate in the Roaring Twenties. But lordy, was she quite the dame.

After a brief period of deliberation Lane tucked the photograph back in The Wealth of Nations and set the book on an end table for later perusal. He also extracted Carter's dress uniform, in the event he made it back, one other book which interested him, and the pack of cigarettes. The rest would go with Louis Jones in the morning.

He sat for a long time then, switching between the examination of Carter's books and the woman in the photograph. She was quite the dame indeed. Maybe, Lane thought with rueful amusement, if he ever saw Carter again he'd ask him if he had any female relatives who wouldn't mind going out with an officer. If every woman in Carter's family was even half as attractive as this one here, he would be a happy man indeed. But why keep this picture anyway? Of all the family photos one could have around why this one? Lane knew people who would be in confession for a week if they so much as laid eyes on something like this! And Carter always seemed so upright, so frigid. He'd never so much as glanced at a naughty pin-up illustration in all of the years Lane'd known him, and yet he kept a photograph like this? It made no sense!

At last, around seven o'clock, the questions became far too insistent for Lane to sit and do nothing. With a mighty breath he pushed himself to his feet, seized The Wealth of Nations, and went in search of Washington D.C.

Now that he knew the truth, it was easy to imagine Louis Jones as their nation's capital, just as it was easy to imagine Jones as America and Kirkland as England. They possessed a certain timelessness that transcended any amount of youthful immaturity, and somehow Lane always felt ignorant when he was around them, as though he was only grasping the strings of a rich and veritable tapestry of wisdom and experience. It was probably true, for the most part. Even Louis Jones, technically the youngest among them, was still centuries more experienced than Lane – a thought which did not fail to rankle him. It was near to impossible, therefore, not to dredge up some respect for the man.

Fortunately, his distaste for the suave, self-confidant lawyer was not as easily consolidated as his age, a sentiment which, as he entered Louis' room, he felt return in spades when he witnessed the man lounging at his desk, coat discarded and vest unbuttoned with a glass of brandy in his hand. In the ashtray, a cigar smoldered.

"Mr. Jones?"

"Captain, what can I do for you?" He shut his book with a snap, "And call me Louis. 'Mr. Jones' is far too formal."

"Duly noted," Lane said with the tiniest bit of venom, "I came because I found this in Major Carter's footlocker. I thought you might know who it was." He presented the picture to Louis, who looked at it for a long moment, face uncannily blank as though a mask had just fallen into place. Lane found it more incriminating than any measure of emotion.

"Where did you get this?" Lane noted a cool undertone in the lawyer's voice and responded in kind with coolness of his own.

"I told you. In Major Carter's footlocker."

"And you are asking me about it?"

"Yes. Since you seem to know so much about him." Louis chuckled breathily, as if by doing so he could dismiss the situation.

"I'm afraid your guess is as good as mine. I am not familiar with the Major on any level other than a professional one. He was rather a misanthrope when it came to personal matters," Louis handed the photo back to Lane with smile that seemed a tad too thin for Lane's liking, "Though I don't suppose it is uncommon for men to keep such paraphernalia in their possession." Lane found his eyes narrow at the insinuation. Major Carter was not a wanton man; in fact, he was about as romantically inclined as a dead fish.

"It seems a bit dated for the purpose you're suggesting."

"Well, I can hardly account for a man's personal preference," He gave Lane a sidelong grin, "I wouldn't put too much stock into it, Captain. Though I would say, when you find him, you should ask him about it yourself."

Dismissal was clear in Louis' tone, but Lane lingered, words of reproach dancing on his tongue. He wanted to tell him exactly what he thought of his high-handed actions, his fanciful presentation, his unchecked gaiety in the face of war-torn reality. But discipline stayed his complaints. Louis could easily boot him off the task force, or worse yet, convince Jones to find another aide and as much as Lane disagreed with Jones' methods and manner – traits he found ran in the family – he didn't want to see the position fall to someone else, not when the possibility of rescuing Carter hovered so near.

"Was there something else on your mind, Captain?" Louis arched a brow, perfectly accommodating, and yet, to Lane, slightly threatening, as if he was daring him to pursue the topic further. He decided it would be a battle for another day.

"No, thanks anyway though." He left without another word, fed up with lawyers, and went straight back to his own quarters. The book he placed once more on the end table, the picture he kept with him as he retired to his bunk. He remained mindful of the distinct feeling of unfinished business and unanswered questions doing acrobatics in his gut as he stared into the woman's teasing eyes, seemingly alight with the very answers he sought. Her expression was wry and sardonic, as though she was about to burst out laughing at some joke at the viewer's expense. Frustrated, Lane shoved the picture away from him, unable to bear the woman's teasing scrutiny any longer, although it served little purpose. Even as he slept he felt her coy stare puncturing holes in his resolve, so foreign, and yet, so familiar.

Königsburg, Prussia

"Sir, telegram for you." Two crimson eyes snapped up from the field reports they were analyzing and fixed instantly on the officer who'd spoken.

"Bring it here." The man possessed a voice steeped in underlying aggression, even though his lips remained contorted in a neutral line. The subordinate officer approached with appropriate caution, placing the sheet carefully in his superior's impatient hand.

The General's unnerving eyes shifted over the text at a shocking pace; however, the brevity of his perusal did not dampen the effect the printed words seemed to have on him. The scarlet in his eyes darkened to maroon while his face seemed to take on ten more years. But perhaps it was the lighting.

"Sir?" Said the subordinate, confused by the lack of dismissal. He flinched when hawkish red irises focused on him suddenly.

"Yes, Sergeant?" His confidence was drained in moments.

"Nothing, sir." The general resumed reading without further acknowledgement, dismissing his subordinate with a wave of his hand. The sergeant left, stationing himself dutifully just outside the door. Minutes passed like hours, then, at last, just when his left foot was beginning to fall asleep, a summons called him back. He found the young general with his fists clenched on his desk, the letter before him, looking troubled and just the slightest bit irritated.

"Sergeant, find Herr Schriver immediately. It appears I will be departing in the morning."